Sunday Morning Thoughts 12.30.12: Four Years Reviewed Haphazardly in a Few Minutes

Here, here! Gather ‘round, all of ye and hear the words that I might type to you now, if ye be a fan. If ye art not, that’s cool. I get it. It could be rather boring, but hey! I’m gonna see if we can do a little something about that this time around. I figure, why not? This time next year I will either be sold out and dead inside, or starving for my ideals. Either way, it shall not be much like it is now.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. Not to say it hasn’t all been swell gang, because it has. But it is to say that I have grown as weary as I can about bouncing around the same old places, thinking about the same old things. Of course, there comes the issue with my track record with being able to do anything at all after I announce that I’m going to do it.

My guess is it’s bad, but I haven’t been looking back as much, until a few drops here and there of late. Which were terrible, little drops of acid but not the kind that makes people see some sort of god that they vaguely believed in before. I mean the kind they throw on women in other parts in the world.

Not here in America. The fading boomers who make laws here just don’t want them having control over their own vaginas.

But I’m not here for politics, no sir. I am here to take one last look back at all that had been said and done while I was supposed to be paying attention in class. How I will do this, I know not. Yet the attempt shall be made just the same. We’ll go with themes, or motifs, or something like that.

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We shall start with the cigarette and what it means and has meant and my further explanation of why all of that is a complete creation of my own mind. The first cigarette I ever smoked, and it was only a small puff that I coughed on for days, was because a pretty girl told me to. The second time was because a slutty girl told me to, who I thought was pretty. Boys, am I right?

The first full cigarette I smoked was in the New Hamburg train station because I was bummed out about the slutty girl. I bought my first pack that night. Camel Crush. Fucking disgusting smokes. From there on, I connected the idea of that damn cancer stick with romanticism. It still makes sense in my mind, I just can’t afford it. Cigarettes have kept great conversations going and started new ones. There was a Red waiting for me along with a Tom Waits song on the sad walk back to nowhere on the anniversary of the execution of the gods of my ancestors. There was a cigarette there when I sat on that sofa on the curb, waiting for something sweet to come back. There were wet cigarettes soaked in whatever littered a sloppy bar floor as the sun rose and set and a new world came crashing in.

I would smoke after going on for two minutes at P&G’s and after my first show. There cigarette on every parade and every event that followed, good, bad, or weird. There were always Newports in the Cutty, may she rest in peace. There was almost always a cigarette in college. Almost.

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Yet that theme is dead or dying, so we should leave it in peace for now. The next would be the stage. Now this is vague, but that is entirely my fault. You see, I wanted to be some many things when I began to learn about the world, that I have had an extreme difficulty picking one. In fact, I still can’t.

I have lines for a musical to memorize, which will not be an issue. I have done it before and gotten better each time. I want to get better. Fuck it man, I like acting and I like being on stage. There is some sort of sick kick for me in getting other people to enjoy themselves. Crazy, right?

I have done, in a very short amount of time, a wide range of roles that have pulled me in all sorts of directions of mind and well being and levels of psychosis. It has been grand and wonderful and critically acclaimed. Maybe its vanity, and I’m sure in some part it is, but I know that it was something I wanted to do way before I ever knew a girl would find me cute.

Then of course, there is just me, the stool and microphone stand. I’ve gotten my kicks, but they’ll be much, much more. I’m not quite comfortable with it yet, so I’ll have to work on it but that is really a matter of location. We’ll get to all of this later.

And the music, what can I say? I’m only human and if I can learn to command and harvest a few vibrations then I’ll be able to make it. I dig waves of the sound variety. I dig that music flows through people and unites them with full and responsible content.

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The final theme, for now, will be the keyboard. I was born to late into the atomic age to ever enjoy the world of typewriters but I have typed away just the same. This particular keyboard sucks. Really though, I must have spilt something on it because the mouse pad bugs out and clicks where ever the mouse is resting on the page. So I will be writing a sentence in the middle of another that is two paragraphs up. This could also be due to my never learning how to type properly. I have overcome great hurdles in this, but if there were a grade for form, I’d fail.

So what was the point of all of this? Nothing essentially, which chance has my life in general moving in that general direction. Statistically, I am at odds with the entire planet which could very easily become insanely hostile towards me. Especially within the species. But hey, I’m dumb enough to still be optimistic and I’m thinking I’ve got a bit more in me.

I am no longer a fool though. The luxury of being that dumb is no longer afforded to me. But who wants to talk about such dull things? Surely not you or I?

So I shall cease here because I have written enough words all in one shot, which I haven’t done for some time. Cheers, and enjoy the holiday. New Year’s is actually one that I find myself enjoying.

Sunday Morning Thoughts 12.23.12

So there is all of this bad in the world, right? And I have this blog. And I’m rather cynical. So it would be safe to assume that I would talk about all the bad that there is and just dwell on that for ages and ages until new problems emerge as a result of fixing myself upon the tragedies of the past, right? I’m only human, right?

Although it may be true that the flesh and blood that make up this boyish man is branded with an organic expiration date, I am holding rather firmly on to the belief that I may be able to find the means for the idea of this man that I call myself to go beyond that.

Bold?

Maybe.

Stupid?

Probably.

Unreasonable?

Not terribly.

Unlikely?

Statistically, at least.

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So why bother chasing that idea about to no foreseeable end? It’s because I have pulled out of the mire, only to dive back in several times and each time only finding the same mud as before. The only difference is the warmth caused from my body heat. Too vivid? Excellent.

Well I’ll refrain from the unsightly matters of the mind for a bit and try and find some virtue floating about. Hmmm… well… to start… oh! We survived the most recent apocalypse scare!

Ok, so maybe it was a total hoax to anyone with half of a somewhat rational mind. And so what they found another Mayan calendar that went past the solstice for 2012? And so what our actual demise seems to be dangerously close with global starvation and war and disease and November being the warmest month for 333 consecutive months? There’s a dusting of snow on the ground where I am here on Earth, so maybe not all is lost.

That doesn’t mean we should sit back and expect it to go away. That is stupid, and irresponsible, and lazy, and overall a pretty shitty thing to do not only to others, but really to yourself.

And that very well could be the issue right there. I’m having such a rough time coming up with the positive because I just seem to lack it in my own reality. Although, that may not be entirely true.

I stand with the entirety of my big toe in the pool of my adult life, which is the one I will now be stuck with until I kick the bucket and fall back into the mud, to be pulled apart over decades on the molecular level. I know it’s fascinating stuff, but we have no time for biology here. Or knowledge really. 10th grade was a long ways away.

The point I’m trying to make is not really coming across as anything though, is it? I suppose it can’t be helped. I’ve spent most of the day playing with my facial hair and making things up in my head. I guess I’m only aging in body. Then again, I do feel older. Or is it just more stressed? Is this stress? Is this life? Is this love? WHAT AM I?

That would seem to be the ever present question in my mind and for a few others throughout the history of human consciousness. Yet, with all these strides all that seems to be is finding out what isn’t and nothing about what is. My buddy Tommy Kuhn seemed to be pretty on the spot when he figured that we really aren’t doing much to get ourselves anywhere specific, or anywhere at all. We just need to keep thinking that we are getting somewhere, I guess.

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Or not. Maybe we are moving towards something that is grand, and bright, and warm, and is just like nirvana, only with better toilets. Maybe all these issues that plague me and us and the whole lot of humanity are just hiccups that seem so inescapable and unconquerable, will just fade away. Maybe they will be replaced by other issues, but those will just fall away in the same fashion until things just even out and we coast along on our rock in perfect health and no type of conflict, internal or external. And there we will stay until the sun explodes and we are destroyed with all the beautiful fury that created us.

Unless we can travel away and live somewhere else. That would be nice, if we did enough research. Find somewhere that’s got a fresher type of air to breath. Or a place where ham grows on trees. That’d be nice.

But I can’t get there without going through this, can I? I didn’t think so. You’ll have to forgive me. I mean, you don’t have to but I’d like you to. I had been told a whole sort of things that I don’t believe anymore. A lot of things that I was never supposed to doubt are gone now.

But the point. Yes, I guess that I should really at least make an attempt to get to that by now, but I still seem to falling short. Could it be helped? I imagine it could and it will and I’ll figure it out, don’t worry. I’ve made it this far and not to make anyone feel bad, I don’t even try as a hard as I could. I know, some people work their entire lives and never accomplish some of the feats I have found in my past of a 5th of one century. And yet here I am, sitting in at my boyhood desk with my shaggy hair and anarchist beard with nothing in my mind but the same old and a few other tweaks of ideas. And as I sit with nothing to do, my mind will wander to all the places that it’s been and run through a whole assortment of emotions. I’ll feel bad and sad a weak and powerless and glad and inspired and nervous and petrified, and all this without leaving my house.

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Alright, let’s face it. There is no point to this right here. Not life, just this post. I just wanted to string a few hundred words together to make some sort of very off beat poetic rant. I wanted to stay on time with these, but I haven’t. Oh well.

Waiting for Doomsday

Hark and hear the raindrops sigh,

Fell just short of lullaby.

And in them I can heard the sound,

Of bouts of time bounding by

And faint whispers of savage cries,

So hell it burns with the fury of that.

A bell in the wind dripping wet with remorse,

Yet so sweet the song that still come forth,

And though it can’t be seen from now,

It rings proud with brutal force,

Caught in rhythmic deficiencies, caused of course,

By shady changes in the weather up north.

But for I to say anything at all,

Would be bold, to say the least

And a certain bad judgment call,

So gather around for the feast.

Your eyes and hold nothing back,

Aside from parts of the heart, painted black.

Sunday Morning Thoughts 12.16.12

It’s raining in December. I wish it was snowing but it is not. It may be the end of the world, or it might not. Either way, the issue lies in the hole in the bottom of my shoe. I’ve had them since high school but I’ve always had an issue with letting things go. Well, only certain things I suppose. I can let the rest go without a thought. Some sort of distorted value system.

I sit here and soberly stare away at my dying world and only such a small amount of my own fault is at play. That of course, is a lie. I am no saint but am all powerful and therefore all things that go awry are my responsibility. I’ve gotten so good at it that I can hardly notice when I even cause such catastrophes. You think there’d been more guilt but there isn’t. I’ve fallen asleep again and woke up alone, just as intended.

It’s hard to say because I haven’t had but one cigarette today and my addiction is convincing me that I need such things for thought. It will fade and soon. At least, I hope it will be soon.

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Hope and wishing, there I go again. I claim all these bold words against such weak propositions and yet here I am, whining about them. And in my own typical fashion, suggest the faults belong to the very same world that I say I have control over. I need to pick a side, or an argument, or story. I need to begin the grand exploitation of my own self, and mind, and abilities to wield the means to discovery of a greater truth. I need to take a look at myself for one last time and walk out the door towards the future that is only as bright as I want to make it.

Not that my intention simply changes it. I need to work at it. I need to plan, and scheme, and act, and perform, and convince all of you that this as it is, can not be as it were any longer.

 

I know it may seem tough to you, but that is only how it seems. The world is busy trying to convey this message to you that you have no choice but to adhere to. You are weak and powerless against the tide of things. You as a person, do not have the means to make change, let alone anything to be considered great. You are unable to be what you want, or think what you want, or feel what you want. You are owned by something that your mind couldn’t even begin to comprehend without removing years of observation that has been cleverly disguised as wisdom.

You’ll have to forgive me. I haven’t even been able to watch the regular shit they shuck out on the news because of this whole Connecticut business, which only precedes the whole Oregon mall business by a few days. So that is all I’ve seen for the last few days and pardon me for being numb, but I am. This only a tragedy because it happened in Connecticut and that is not me being insensitive. Anyone who follows the news sees people die in larger numbers every day. 40,000 dead in Syria and few tears have been shed in the land of the free. Don’t worry, there were plenty of kids involved in that. Over 500 they reckon are dead and about 400 have been tortured for information. Statistically, it doesn’t add up.

But let me not let my cynicism take over because I’d like to hold on to whatever foolish bits of optimism I am capable of, if such a thing could even be real. I could talk about the wonderful privilege he that I have being able to grow up at the fattest levels of decadence of the largest empire the world has ever known. We could talk about how so very few things in my life are truly dire or tragic and yet I treat every little hiccup as the end of days, or at least seemingly letting it be so. We could talk about my full stomach, and good physical health, and great access to education.  We could, but we’re not.

We’re not going to because these types of discussion solve nothing, as most discussion does. Not anything against the conversed word, but I know that these words are not said to get anywhere, but rather to argue and perpetuate the ideas at hand. And the whole problem of this issues stems from me not being able to come up with anything meaningful to say yet. I have dragged on for a few hundred words and a several dozen phrases to find myself no wiser than when I was younger and had a car and all of my worries were those I chose to have upon myself. Back when everything I had was fought for by someone else and I was to be grateful. Back when a young boy hand never kissed a girl and didn’t know what to want or what to do. The kiss only first happened about six years ago, so you could imagine that I have only come so far.

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But I have and here I am, sitting atop my tiny little empire with no more words to say at the end as I did in the beginning and that has mostly to do with boredom and attention span. That and vanity. These days of posting the greatest craft that I am capable of into blog posts will be ceasing soon. Or at least changing mode. I may or may not be sorry, but the worth of my words will only go up if I begin to take them more seriously. I was told that I was good at this sort of thing many times. I was told a few years before now as well as with the passing moments.

Somehow, we have wound up here and yet I feel as I have said nothing and am even further from solving anything. This isn’t true though, because I won’t let it. And that, my friends is the wonder of it all. It can only mean what you want it too and that is the truth. Care not for what the rest compare or contrast your actions to because you can make anything mean whatever you want, Now, I trust that you understand how terrifying of a prospect that could be. Truth could be found by in feeding the hungry, just as much as it is found in a class room full of dead 1st graders.  It should be understood that truth does not always mean justice. Nor does justice always mean benevolence. And benevolence could mean pumpkin pie somewhere else in the universe.

We don’t know. I don’t know and I know for a fact that you don’t know. I couldn’t verify or justify any of this, because I don’t imagine that I will be coming back to it anytime soon. I may never read this again, or at least not until I am old enough to be able to not care. That is, if I make it that far. The world is supposed to end in the next few days, so who knows.

If there are typos and misspelling, I kindly suggest that you deal with it. This is better off being posted with timely ideas than having the best grammar. Cheers.

Power Kingdom Bound

Sunday Morning Thoughts 11.18.12 – 12.9.12: The Forgotten Month on the Eve of Apocalypse

And it has come at last. I will be making my escape. It will be grand, I’m sure. All these years of talking to mirrors has produced a well rehearsed show.

Here’s a disclaimer. Don’t define escape as you normally would, because this is based upon my own view. Don’t bother trying to see it either. From up here I can tell the bridge is down. There is only one way out and it seems to be not from where we came. From where I’ve come, really.

The culmination of mind drowning bullshit has finally reached the point at which I will no longer stand aside and let it rampage any further. I am on a war path, so to speak. These institutions and bureaucracies have played their hands full. They are stretched and won’t stand up to much, least of all what I have in store. It won’t be violent, unless they listen to what they tell you. If you listen to what there is, you’ll have the proper sympathy. There is only what is. Enough of what should be.

The mass delusion is one of apathy. Fattened on the profitability of some small selections of science that had become viciously marketed, we have become convinced that answers just fall into the lap of those who need it. These answers come from the community that for some strange reason, you know no one who belongs to it. Yet you believe it is, despite the contradiction to the process at practice itself. This is based off of the Snuggie and advances in video stimulation equipment.

Unfortunately and very seriously, we are already over due. I’m over due. I should have been going at this the entire time but like all the rest, I was sitting around watching some screen as I traded between picking my nose and picking my ass. I had caved in the moments expected for triumph and been too bold when I should have said nothing.

We use and use and use, without giving any bit of the slightest damn about how much there is. Or how we can get enough of it back to keep using it. Or what the fuck it could possibly be doing to effect life now. We are just too occupied with some very disgustingly trivial matters to try and investigate. This is all because of social networking and television programming that almost exclusively caters to making appearances for the shittiest rich ass wipes imaginable. It lets a few others in, but making it in this field with dignity is some damn fight. I hope I’m up for it.

If there is anything that could express the development of the cynicism that lives inside of me, it would be this. Go through all of these posts and you’ll find my reactions to events of the past in varying proximities of time from which they occurred. I wrote after heartbreak and tragedy, and even more often just the illusion of those two. I wrote about hallucinated love and ambitions to rise from the muck of civilization. This is only the development, not the completion.

The trick is to be able to stop the bleeding after just the right amount of poison is gone, to keep just a little bit of it inside. Or perhaps I’m mad. Either way, I will aim to never become a complete cynic, nor will I be able to remain the youthful fool from before. My innocence is gone, if innocence is held at the same conditional standards of silence. To know what innocence is, means you do not have it. I may still seem to be nice, but trust me when I say I am not as nice as I used to be. Sainthood is not the aim.

I’ve broken many promises but not all of them are regrets, though they were when they first shattered. Some where necessary, or resistant to dodge but they all happened just the same. They have always happened and maybe they always will. Here’s to hoping the next vase I break is filled with cash. Hoping for cash never ends up fruitless, right? Hope for the hopeless. Turkeys for the turkeyless.

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     So that whole thing was written about a week ago, which is about three weeks too late itself. I started to read it to get an idea of where to go next but I didn’t. Fuck it. I just need the now and whatever comes with it. Anticipation and hope have slowed this dope to terrible whiny speeds. Not entirely of course. Still, it’s enough to make the madness feel conflicting where it should be inspiring. Inspiration, how I call for thee. Inspiration, won’t you stay with me? Inspiration, do you even like me?

The understanding is void, so they’ll be no discussion about it. We float around and fill ourselves with chemicals and play with the ideas in our heads to keep from falling asleep. We’ll attach ourselves to our delusion and call it happiness and wallow away the hours until the world cooks itself and doom and gloom prevail. That is, unless I start doing something about it.

It’s not arrogance, it’s really more of guilt. I am among the most wasteful individuals which creates a nice ideological self loathing complex. The amount of things that I have been able to toss away in life is shameful. Many things go beyond simple monetary values too. Real deal stuff. The kind that breaks the bond between man and the all knowing, ever loving cash. Well maybe not break, but tamper with at the very least.

Despite this, I call for man as a whole to change the ways of living deemed fit and change to something that isn’t awful. I say this as I type into my stupid phone about nothing and feel bad about things that shouldn’t get any kind of feeling at all. That, and I may enjoy a beverage or a dozen and make a fool of myself and make mistakes, a lot.

Excellent. I’m going to wash myself now. As in a shower, nothing metaphorical. I imagine I’ll feel better about things once I do. I’m looking forward to it but I should know better than that by now. I hold for the hope of a life filled with hot water. The danger of losing it may be much more immense that you think. Unless of course, you’ve been paying attention.

Global

     So let us now conclude this little fiasco and make it forever immortalized in digital form. I’ll get around to physical copies eventually. Again, I have not re read what was written before and trust me when I say that I’ve forgotten it. The moods between then and now are quite different and I imagine that there’s some sort of reflection in this particular work. Ha! I referred to this as a piece of work. Such a maroon.

The goal, or mission, or objective, is not really any of those things. It is vague, and so perfectly vague that it floats about in the mist of existence, with only the slightest forces pulling it forth and yonder. The best part is that none of that may be true and the force could be grand and beautiful. Or it might not.

You feel this and I feel that. That, of course, changes to this and then you’re left with the other thing and all hell breaks loose. Which is silly, because feelings are silly. I suppose.

They’re not terrible, I’m not cynical enough to say that but I wouldn’t advise you to take such things too seriously. They are very fleeting. Emotions are another story. I think the guide said to dodge them all together. Something about being horribly fantastic, or something of that sort.

Well, I suppose it’s time to wrap this up and make up for all the nothing I’ve been up to, while I should have been doing this type of nothing. Ya dig? I have work to do, and I suppose that I’m pretty serious about it. I’ve been talking and talking and vaguely planning. I have made some means, probably more than I give myself credit for. I have a few avenues to pursue, ferociously of course.

See, that’s the problem with super heroes. People love to believe in them and have that ideal to hold on to when travel throughout the muck and mire that is the world of human experience. Light to the darkness, that sort of thing.

Jesus is essentially a superhero. He’s a supernatural benevolent leader who defies that corruption of the establishment, ultimately at the cost of his life which he gets back anyway because fuck clergy and the empire. A little bit, and really only a little bit, of tweaking and you’ve got a kick ass middle eastern superhero who stands against ordinary foes whilst simultaneously representing an idea for a true and kind justice that inspires the people in the world of the book and in the world of the reader.

I remember, the other evening, or morning rather round five, I was blundering down a street, puffing away at a smoke. I was yelling out loud about my disappointment in reality or something like that. I did this to my room and in my room upon my arrival. The idea that I’ve recalled clearly for some reason is this:

So I was drunk, in the dark of my single room, in my underwear, reflecting aggressive upon existence. This happens more than you’d think. I decided that I use the word wish too much, and I hate it. The word, I mean. I said, to myself, that to wish is to remove any kind of responsibility for the events that unfold. Wishing makes you a victim.

It’s even a shitty word aesthetically. Wish. It’s weak. It is constantly fleeting and running away.

Wish. Wish is the sound something makes when it is travel past you as fast as it can. Wish is the sound of being ignored for some other goal. Fuck wish and wishes and wishing.

Wishing Away

Fuck. Now there’s a word with some gusto.